Proof of the Godvessel
November 9th, 1017 The young Elf, taller than most men around her, moved through the hallowed streets of Leva Adium like a gentle breeze. The roads and shops were now whole again after the Battle of the Sons of Gildor had seen so many stones upturned. The people of Gildor had banded together and, with worn hands of toil, they saw their city renewed. If Sapientia could say anything about mankind, it was their ability to move on. Perhaps it was their mortality, perhaps it was the Dark Spirit, but they did not tend to linger on damage done. She envied that. As she moved across the square to peruse the wares of vendors, she gleaned a form was watching her. Robed in black, weapon concealed, the shadow was watching from a safe distance. “Excuse me, miss,” a young lady asked her. Sapientia turned to see a woman, a full head shorter than herself, donned in black and purple. “Are you Sapientia Vita?” The woman seemed genuine and bore no weapon, but Sapientia could feel a connection between her and the shadow watching. Without a word, she turned and ran. “Sapientia!” The woman called. With deft footwork the High Elf slithered into the crowd, her once proud form withdrawn for speed and stealth. She turned a corner, then another, then worked into an alley for safety. She distrusted humans, particularly those with ill-intent, as well she aught to, but her time with the Vix had only strengthened her prejudice. It had kept her alive at least once before. She made to leave her cover, but a rogue flash of black caught her off-guard. Several steps behind her a cloak, black with purple trim, had emerged from the alley. “Maen firen,” she whispered, ducking away and bracing against the crowd once more. This one was fast. Working through the throngs of commoners made her nose sting from human stench, yet it was something almost fond to her now. Almost. Another cloak, there in the crowd. And another, or perhaps the same? She was being stalked, and they were not being secretive about it. “Do not run,” a voice called out to her, “we wish only to talk!” As she turned to anticipate another escape she realized the crowd had thinned; now, in a gathering of passageways given shade by leaning buildings, Sapientia found herself surrounded by three men. Men with cloaks… men with swords. “Sapientia Vita,” one of them called to her, “rather rude to not return a greeting, no?” She turned to see a man, half a head shorter than the two others, donning armor and an inquisitive stare. A large black shield was slung across his back, making him appear larger than he really was. “My name is Sinthaster the Wolfeater, captain of the First Legion of the Darkmoon Saints and Paladin of the Seven. The sooner we exchange words, the sooner we can all be on our way.” Sapientia brought her staff to bare; the men on either side of Sinthaster twitched in anticipation. “I have no words to exchange with one who traps and corners.” “You are fast, Sapientia, you nearly gave us the slip. Still, I have yet to meet anyone who can outpace Greyne, especially in a city such as this. Some call him the Darkmoon Snake.” “Sir,” Greyne said, “you are the only one that calls me that.” “You can question me when you finish your contract, Greyne of the Darkmoon Snakes.” Greyne breathed in slowly. “Yes, sir.” “Enough of this,” Sapientia said, “what do you want with me?” “I used to be more eloquent with my approaches, fair Lady, but the past few years have made me an impatient man. I now prefer efficiency over tact. Come, lower your weapon, and let us talk.” “Ego aphadon, you shall have no words from me.” She readied her staff, hopeful she could take this smaller adversary. He wore no helmet. All she needed was one powerful blow… “Im pedo edhellen, Sapientia. Awartha breghed, egledhron.” She stopped. “What did you call me?” His Elvish was fluid, not a native speaker by any means but well-practiced. He had called her an exile. That was not a word most men knew in her tongue. She was also not an exile. “You know what I called you, and I would know more about this. You are a Vix, are you not? You and your kin are preparing a journey into Rhivic with Darshia’s blessing?” “You know much, little man.” He rolled his eyes. Clearly not the first time he had been called short. “I mean to make your travels safer, and to that end, you are to come with me.” “And if I refuse?” “Then I shall slit the throat of every Vix Agarra from Gildor to Larkenvale myself, to save you all the time of wasting your lives in Rhivic.” She felt his aura. It was no bluff. He almost seemed too tired to bluff. She had heard of the Darkmoon and their exploits, they were some manner of servants of the Seven. What she had heard most frequently involved their skill in hunting heretics. Was that what the Vix were to them? Heretics? “We shall speak here.” Sinthaster glanced around him, motioning for his Darkmoon entourage to keep bystanders at bay. “We will speak on the way to Lindala.” Sapientia scoffed. “If you know so much about me than you would know I have no desire to return to that place.” “And I have no desire to keep the Seven waiting. Solomon said I needed to bring you to Lindala, and I will not question a Godvessel.” “Solomon? As in, Rorn?” “Yes, that Solomon. He’s prepared a caravan to Lindala, and the longer we wait, the more likely he is to leave without us. If you’d like the chance to speak with him…” “I’m ready. Let’s go.” “Good,” Sinthaster said, showing no surprise at her quick decision. “Aurilus, ready Sapientia’s horse.” As the Saints made to leave, Sapientia caught Sinthaster handing off a sealed scroll to Greyne. His face slathered in stoicism. She could feel blood on that one. “Sapientia?” She turned, the young woman from before now at her side. “Perhaps now you would be so inclined to return my greeting?” Sapientia waited. “And your name is?” “Keirina Balaur, Priestess of the Darkmoon. Come, while Aurilus prepares your horse, I’d like to tell you of our order, and perhaps you can tell me more about yours.” ……… November 18th, 1017 The score of horses rode afore the midday sun in pairs. Travel had been easy-going, though Sapientia had yet to be awarded time to converse with Solomon as had been promised her. From what she understood, he was already in Lindala. Still, she knew this was as good a chance as any. Lidiya had been unable to give her what she seeked, as the young girl had little recollection of her time before the mortal coil. Sapi would bare this travesty of her honor, for now. She rode aside Sinthaster, per his request. He seemed ever keen on keeping a watchful eye on her. He had been reserved on the voyage thus far and far different from the stories she had heard of him. The lecherous, drunken soldier was nowhere to be found. This was a Paladin, one who was privy of something to come and determined to meet it. “It has been some time since last I dealt with High Elves,” Sinthaster said. “The last I was here, I made treaty with the King of Lindala and found myself a beautiful woman.” He glanced back, Keirina’s horse close behind. A smile trickled across his face at her sight, but only for a moment. “Well,” Aurilus said from behind, “I doubt you will be so lucky this time.” “Luck has never been my ally, Aurilus. Let luck be the domain of men with nothing to lose. I much prefer faith and steel.” “Sinthaster,” Sapientia asked, “I must inquire; why did Solomon ask to bring me along?” “From what I was told, you may be key in changing Miralath’s mind.” She nearly fell from her horse, a sting of panic flitting through her spine. “You mean to speak with the King of Elves?” Sinthaster squinted in confusion. “Yes? That is his name, yes? I can hardly keep track of human kings these days; if the Elves are getting in on regicide too I won’t even bother learning any new names.” “Solomon has that much sway? To be able to speak with King Miralath?” “He is a Godvessel. That’s about as qualified as a mortal can get, I’d wager. Still, nothing is guaranteed. Seven save us if you think this will be an easy venture.” She retreated into her own mind. She was doing this for the Vix, for her story, for her dream of understanding. Still, what was she getting into? “How long has it been since last you visited these woods?” She arose from her daydream and studied the Darkmoon, her eyes vying for vantage over his secrets. “Not long enough.” “It seems to be the plight of most adventurers I meet to hold some grudge against their homes. They say to be a Lancer adventurer you must be either an orphan or an exile. Still, you are the first High Elf I’ve met who holds such disdain. Why is this?” “Do all Darkmoon pry as you do, or only the Paladins?” Sinthaster laughed. “It is our nature, I suppose. They say Húrin was blessed with the Faultless Visor of which no lie could escape. We merely seek to emulate His design.” “A lofty goal for one so mortal.” “Oh my, the first ‘lowly mortal’ reference of what I assume will be many to come. Do Elves take joy in reminding men of their frailties?” Sapientia smiled. “Only slightly.” The forest grew thick around the trail, the trees creating a shadowed canopy above the caravan. The road continued. “Tell me, Paladin,” Sapientia said, “what is your interest in the Vix?” “My duty as a Darkmoon is to safeguard the realm from heretics and Fel. The Vix are a self-proclaimed death cult. Don’t you think we might be interested?” “We’re not a death cult…” “If I had a duke for every time I’ve heard that line, I’d be the next King of Gildor. For now, we shall keep a respectable distance, thanks in part to your cooperation. Just refrain from any human sacrifices and we won’t come knocking.” “The Vix have never and would never resort to such despicable action.” “Good. Seven willing it will stay that way.” A call resounded from the rear of the caravan. “Captain, a storm approaches from the west. Shall we stop for camp?” “We ride on. The sooner we rich the city the sooner we can drink.” Perhaps the drunken lecher was still in there, after all. Sapientia supposed one need not always be sober to kill heretics. ……… November 20th, 1017 Lindala Tareldar; the sacred upper-level of Lindala. This was the first time in history that the King had allowed Men into its halls. From what Sapientia could fathom, it was not his idea. She walked now, the Darkmoon close behind as she led the way through the Silver Palace. Her kin stared at her; they seemed removed from this place, as if staring through thick glass from behind their own eyes. Where once she felt so empathetic to their whims, she was distant, now. Not as great a stranger as the Saints, of course, but the distance was nonetheless palpable. She was lonely. They were welcomed into the innermost section of the palace by heavily armed guards, their silver hall echoing the flowing garments of the decorum around them. A vast chamber opened; two thrones ascended before the mass of Elves. Atop one, King Miralath sat. The Silver Lady was absent from the other, as often she was. It seemed little had changed. As Sapientia and the Saints walked towards the center of the room, she saw a large man standing at the foot of Miralath’s throne, engaged in conversation with the King of Elves. Before she even saw his face, Sapientia could feel something was different about this man. Her eyes, trained to see the fabric of the ethereal, could trace the slightest shimmer of divinity amongst his silhouette. The King noticed Sapientia’s approach. He put up his hand to slow the man’s speech. “Sapientia, nathlo! It has been too long.” Sapientia bowed low, the Saints doing the same in the sight of the Elven King. When she rose, it was not Miralath’s face she lingered on; Solomon, the Godvessel of Rorn, stood before her now. He was large, well-worn of face but gentle of demeanor, and outstretched his hand to take hers. “Mae l'ovannen, Sapientia. I eneth nîn Solomon e Gildor.” “Le suilon, Solomon.” She took his hand and braced it. His grip was strong. “Thank you, Sapientia. Were it not for your recommendation of me to the King, this meeting may never have happened.” “Recommendation?” “Yes, Sinthaster told me that it was your good word to King Miralath that allowed me passage into Tareldar.” She looked back at Sinthaster. He gave her a subtle wink. “Right, of course. Did he also tell you that I wished to speak to you about… divine matters?” “Yes, and I will be happy to help. But first, let me have words with the King. We will speak soon.” As she trailed to the side of the room to join the Saints, she caught herself glaring at Sinthaster. Who did he think he was to speak for her? This would need to be addressed. Propmptly. “King Miralath, I beseech you,” Solomon began, bowing low once again. “Let Bainaur come forth, that I may speak with him.” “I have heard a great deal about you, Solomon of Gildor,” Miralath began, his throne swathed in ceremonial silver drapery. “A man of action, a man of passion, and one tested against the hardships of Rhivic.” “My life has been one in service of the Seven, your excellency.” “So it would seem. You claim to be a Godvessel?” Solomon nodded gravely. “Just as Bainuar is. The Godswalk is upon us all.” “Prove it.” Present company exchanged glances of confusion or worry. Solomon took a step towards the king, Elven guards twitching at his advance. “And how shall I prove my divinity, my Lord?” “Lidiya can raise the dead and summon ice at a whim. Kathotar is a beast nearly beyond comprehension, or so my mind has seen on the winds. Bainaur harbors the eternal flame within him. What can you do?” Sapientia felt a twinge of pain, something she sensed all Elves in the hall now shared. Elves were far more connected than humans, and she felt the King’s unease in her skin. It had been so long since last she had surrounded herself with other High Elves, she had nearly forgotten the sensation. “It is true, my King,” Solomon said. “Many have heard of Lidiya’s power, though she is loathe to show it. But Kathotar? I was not aware that any knew she had Awakened. You show much wisdom, your grace.” “Enough flattery, human. Show me your power.” “Where is the Silver Lady? She could speak of my divinity.” “The Silver Lady is not here, mortal. You are talking with me, not her. Prove your power, otherwise our meeting is done.” Solomon sighed, his armor creaking against his beating chest. “I have no magic, your grace. That is not the calling of my Godswalk, nor of my Godvessel. What I do have is knowledge of the world, and knowledge of combat.” “Hm. Disappointing. I was expecting Rorn’s Godvessel to have the strength of giants or to ride astride a magnificent white lion.” “Merely stories, your grace.” “Very well, I suppose those meager traits you have described thus far will suffice. Which shall you prove first?” Solomon tightened his resolve. “Knowledge.” “Proceed.” “My liege, because my Godvessel was denied the gifts of power, he was instead allowed to retain much of his understanding from before being bound in mortal flesh. The winds of the world flow through my mind and carry the secrets of realms far removed from our own. Though I am no Nolweva, my wisdom runs deep.” “Just like any Elf, I fail to see what is so special about that.” “Your brother, King Valanthil, plots against you and the Silver Lady.” King Miralath’s eyes turned cold, the color of his face draining. “What was that?” Sapientia knew the name, as all Elves did. Valanthil. The oldest living Elf in Ura. Older than Miralath, older than Elliera, older than the Holy Sojourn itself. “Valanthil does not believe in the Godswalk… at least, not anymore. He does not believe that Men are to inherit the earth.” “You know nothing of the ways of Elves…” “Or perhaps, Miralath, you can verify that it was your designs that saw Malek’Reth return to Lancerus.” “Enough! I will not be judged by the likes of you.” “Miralath, I know you have the best intentions of the free peoples in your heart. Just as the Silver Lady-” “You said you had prowess of combat?” Miralath was short, terse. “Let us see.” A wave of his hand summoned an armored Elf, two lithe blades dangling at her sides. Her body moved like a gentle wind, but her eyes summoned the ferocity of storms with their gaze. “This is Alliya. She is one of my finest combatants. Fell her and we shall see how strong you are.” “As you wish.” From the sidelines, Sapientia held her breath. She knew Alliya, at least by deed. The Elf had served in Miralath’s guard for hundreds of years, a vast host of orcs fallen by her hands. How could Solomon hope to beat someone so many times older and more experienced? Yet, as she felt his aura, she sensed no fear from him. He readied his tower shield and mace, his movements calm and sure. He stared Alliya down, his hair and beard shrouding his face in a gray cloak. Miralath waved his hand. “Begin.” Alliya charged, blades dancing through the wind. She jumped at Solomon, swords clanging against the face of his shield. A direct attack would prove ineffective; she was clearly baiting him, turning and confusing him until an opening presented itself. Yet it never came. Solomon met her every attack, blocking or dodging with the grace of any Elf Sapientia had ever seen. No, beyond that. She saw it unfolding before her eyes, just as Miralath, Alliya, and all the others in the hall were witnessing. He moved with the precision and rehearsal of a man not hundreds of years old or even thousands. Something older than Ura itself guided Solomon. Solomon only swung once, his mace flying into Alliya’s armored chest. She sailed through the air, swords clanging to the ground, before crumpling under the weight of her labored breathing. One swing, and it was finished. The room was silent. Sapientia could hardly believe her eyes; how could a man with such prowess and age only now become known to the world? Where has he been all this time? “I believe that was all you needed?” Solomon said, apparently not even winded from the battle. Miralath folded his fingers over his nose, staring into the vast space of the room below him. “It seems Rorn lives within you after all. So be it. Let Bainaur decide.” The room swelled with palpable awe. Murmurs from the Elven company seemed out of sorts. Had these Elves never seen Bainaur? The King’s own servants? “Sapientia,” she heard from behind. She turned, seeing Sinthaster and the Darkmoon kneeling on one knee. “Lower yourself.” She looked back, falling to her knee as she did. From behind the thrones, from beyond the veil of silver, an aura of pure warmth emerged. There, before the gathered crowd, came a young male deer. The buck was drenched in flowers and golden cloth, its small antlers adorned in birds. So was Bainaur, Godvessel of Kalyar, to join the world’s stage. Elves fell to their faces. Miralath descended from his throne and bowed as well. The only one in the room still standing was Solomon. The room evolved; the sounds of wilderness in dawn filled the air. Running water, from a place unknown, swam through the ears of all in attendance. The chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves; all seemed removed yet so close. Bainaur approached the human warrior. Sapientia looked up gently from her bowed position. Solomon was crying, his face beaming with a smile greater than she had ever seen. Solomon threw down his weapons and ran to the deer, his arms outstretched in celebration. He fell to his knees and wept, hugging Bainaur around the neck. Sapientia could hardly believe her eyes. Bainaur was crying too. “Kalyar,” Solomon said, his voice labored with sobs, “it’s good to see you.” Something moved Sapientia to tears. A happiness, something so profoundly powerful, had welled up within her. She was surprised, touching her fingers to her face in disbelief. She moved her eyes across the room; all Elves were doing the same. This was true love. Elves can feel the emotions of their own kin, but it had been said that they also feel the joys and woes of those who created them: the Vanessi. It would seem, here in this place, all were feeling the kinship of two brothers older than time itself. “Bainaur,” Solomon said, “I’m so happy to be reunited, but our sister needs your help. Come, let us talk. We have much to discuss. Sapientia, Darkmoon, I would have you join us for this meeting. Come, to the Pool of Stars.” Miralath rose, “I will not allow it. Only the Silver Lady is allowed within the Pool of Stars.” Bainaur turned to him now, his antlers glowing a soft, gold hue. The room filled with heat, quickly enough to cause an audible moan from creaking foundations. Miralath shivered. “Yes, Bainuar,” he said. “If the Seven will it.” “They do,” Solomon said. “Quickly now, come.” Sapientia felt numb. She was going to a place where not even the King of Elves, a man mentioned by name in the Holy Sojourn, could venture. As she rose she grabbed Sinthaster gently by the arm. “Sinthaster, thank you for this,” she said. “Don’t thank me yet, Sapientia. This is just getting started.” Category:World Lore